thecapitol | Our Love is Quicksand [Closed]

Entry tags:

Our Love is Quicksand [Closed]

Who| Howard and Eponine
What| Breakup 2: Electric Boogaloo
When| Two weeks after aliens.
Where| District 3 Suites
Warnings/Notes| None yet.

It takes him a good week to work up the nerve to talk to Eponine. During that time he picks at his lips so badly he's torn strips of skin down to his chin, leaving him with painful scabs. His cuticles are worn down to reddened, cracks nubs. Despite having recovered from the flu, if anything he looks even more sickly. Dark circles have formed under his eyes, and a twitch keeps jerking his head slightly to the side. The stress of the Arena is nothing on the stress of romance.

He only manages to psych himself up in the slightest hours of the morning, when the sun is just a smudge of pink on the horizon. He stays in the hallways watching it a moment before picking the lock into District 3, before heading into the suite and standing outside Eponine's door.

At long last, he knocks. He knows she's in there, knows that the Escorts wouldn't let her sleep in the alley for long.

He rests his forehead against the door. "Eponine? Epsy-Daisy? Eponine, please open up. I love you. Eponine. Please."

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It takes a while for Eponine to open the door. Thanks to Howard, she is in the full throes of the flu, and she looks every bit as pale, as worn, as tired as she had done in Paris. Her eyes are red, bloodshot through, and a little crusty about the corners, and the black bags beneath them match Howard's. Her hair is greasy and unkempt, still in the plait Eva had braided days ago for the most part, though curls escape in a tangle from the weave. Her nose, too, is bright red from her constant wiping; her arm, if Howard cares to look, is covered in a greenish crust of dried mucus and phlegm.

Before she opens the door, though, she has to steady herself. She has to not let herself just fall into his arms and weep for joy that he has given her another chance. She cannot smile at him. She can't justgive in. She needs to show him that she is not someone he can use and insult and toss aside. She breathes deeply, and forces herself to keep a straight Face when she opens the door.

She stands in the doorway, blocking the entrance to her room.

"What do you want, Monsieur? You shall wake everyone the way you shout for me."

"Sorry, I..."

She looks terrible, and that makes two of them. He takes her in for a moment, the lank hair, the reddened eyes, the beige stains of sweat around her clothes. Some part of him wants to believe it's his fault, but he forces that thought away.

Instead he takes her in his arms and, standing on tip-toes, tries to plant a kiss on her lips. One last try. One last try to make it right.

She tries to hold out - truly, she tries her best not to just cave when he kisses her. And for a minute, she manages to remain unmoved, to not give Howard that satisfaction. She refuses to kiss back, refuses to bend her head so that she can kiss him back, refuses to embrace him in a hug soured only by her body odour.

But she can't do it. She can't keep it up because she needs to be kissed. She needs to be loved. And Howard, HOWARD is willing to give her that. She has to forget all the horrible things they've both said and done. She has to forgive him and ignore it. She gives in.

Her head bows,to make it easier for Howard to kiss her, and she embraces him suddenly, almost collapsing against him in relief. It's okay. It's all okay. He truly does love her.

She breaks the kiss to say, "Howard, will you come in?"

She pulls him into her room; it had been tidy a few days ago when Eva had come - thanks to the Avox cleaning it whilst she had been in the bin. But Eponine had yelled until the Avoxes left, and now her room's a mess. The jewellery Howard had given her is scattered about; obviously thrown in a fit of temper, and there are tissues and jumpers and leg warmers dumped at intervals around the floor. But Eponine doesn't care. She's just glad to have Howard back.

She pulls him to sit on her bed, hastily clearing tissues away a she does.

"Why were you cross with me, Howard? Why did you do it?"

He pauses, sitting with her on the bed, trying to find a way to say it without saying it and without hurting her. He can't find it. His brain gropes through the dark and comes up with only air.

"I love you," he says, trying to distract her and drag the conversation away from that. "I promise. I love you."

And he tries to kiss her again, because while he doesn't especially like kissing her, or anyone these days - and at least one of them has some truly heinous breath - it's better than talking. Pretending is so preferable to reality.

She turns her face away, though it takes her a lot of effort to do it.

"Howard, no. Please. Why did you do that? I told you - and you made me feel like the girl I was in Paris, you know? I need to know you won't do it to me again."

"I'm sorry." He rests his head on her shoulder, rubbing a little circle into her arm with his thumb. "I don't want you for your body, Eponine. That's all. I got upset when you said that's what you thought I wanted."

"I didn't mean it like that... I meant..."

She leans her head on his, spoiling it by sneezing and wiping the mucus down her (spare) bare arm.

"Sorry." She snorts a little. "I mean to say that I meant that... well... it is something I worry about, you know. Not just with you. But... I don't feel like me. And it make me wonder if people would still like me if they knew the real me. I am not as beautiful as even I am now!"

He takes his knuckle and wipes her nose for her. "I promise, I love you no matter what you look like. I just..."

He desperately wishes what he was here to tell her was untrue. "Remember when we got wasted after karaoke and fell asleep in that barn with all the milk? That's when you were prettiest to me. All asleep and kind of like, drooling on yourself with your hair all messed up."

He gives her a kiss on the neck. "Keep your clothes on, okay? I'm going to try something." He pulls back from her and pulls his sweater off.

"What are you doing?" She watches him curiously. What IS he doing?

But she's pleased, really, with his description of her. It might not be attractive but it's proof, isn't it? It's proof that he truly does love her. Even with the flu, she suddenly feels the best she ever has done. It's almost a weight out of her stomach to think that he truly loves her.

He pulls his shirt up and off, leaving his top exposed - the ribs and collarbone and lumpy sternum, the scar tracing vertically down. He looks down at himself and masks a cringe.

"I kind of wanted to remind you that I'm not a supermodel either." He wonders how many motions he can go through before it works. If he took his pants off now, could he make himself want her? Could he just go ahead and sleep with her and prove that yes, she's pretty, yes, he's straight, swallow that feeling of dread and inexplicable revulsion?

"We always liked each other because we understood each other."

"Both the starving children eating so much food, and so rudely." Eponine laughs, even as she reaches out to stroke down his scar.

"I think you are beautiful, Howard. I do love you, you know?"

"I know. So why ain't you believing me when I tell you that?" He sprawls on his back on the bed and gestures for her to come over.

She follows him back over, leaning over to kiss his scar.

"Because in my head, I can hear Montparnasse. And he tells me all sorts of things, and over and over he says I'm ugly and so. I can feel him pulling my hair tight to force my head up and my chin to point and feel him whisper horrid things at me. It is hard - but I am trying. For you."

"He's never coming back, Eponine. And he was a fuckhead." He brushes some crust from her eyelashes. "And if he does come back, I'll totally shank him for you."

He reaches over and gives her hand a squeeze.

"You won't!"

She kisses him again. "If they bring him here, I am locking you away beause I will NOT have you killed by him! I will not let you die for me! But that - that is a worry for when he appears. Not now. Come. We are together again, no? We should have ice cream to celebrate!"

She shifts her head so that his fingers wiping at her lashes fall to her lips; she kisses them lightly.

"Come! We shall have a feast in the kitchens!"

"God, you have no faith in me," he teases, but there's a stone sinking in his stomach. It pulls at all the muscles and sinew in his chest, dragging it down, down. He sits up and gives her another kiss.

"Okay. Kitchens. Let's do this."

"Montparnasse broke the dolly I brought from Montfermiel - my only doll; I loved her, so. Suzanne, she was named, and he pulled her arms and legs off and then her head because I would not share. He shall NOT have the chance to do so to you. You know, I fancied Suzanne loved me, when all was strange in Paris. Even now, you know, I wish I had that doll. But you love me now, don't you? You are like Suzanne for me!"

Whilst she chatters, she pulls him from the bed, and out of her bedroom.

"Come! Little Pruna and I - we found the ice cream!"

"Probably best you don't call me Suzanne, okay?" He follows her, being a little too touchy-feely the whole way. He keeps his hand at her back, wraps his arms around her in a hug as they go to the kitchen, trying to hold on to something, anything.

They grab the ice cream and settle in at the kitchen counter.

"You are such a stupid!" She hugs him from behind, reaching her arms back and around him to pull him close as they go into the kitchen. It nearly trips her up, but it makes her laugh all the more. For what it looks like, they could be two teenagers, anywhere in the world, enjoying first love.

"But you're MY stupid!" She taps his nose with her spoon as they sit. "And you will get my cold if you keep cuddling me and you shan't win the arena for us."

"I'm pretty sure you got that cold from me. Sorry." He grabs a spoon and waves it in front of her face as if he's playfully chiding her. "Turns out I'm contagious."

"Your smile is contagious. And your goodness. And - YOU! Always you make me come back to you, even when we are so bad. Nobody has ever done that to me. Not even Marius."

She grins happily, before reaching with a spoon to nick a bit of his ice cream.

"Pruna went mad when I tried this, you know?"

He smiles, but it fades too quickly.

"Taking her ice cream? I would too, if it wasn't you." He nudges her foot with his. "I like this, you know? Being friends?"

"It is better then when we do not speak. You know, I think I would be mad, completely mad, if I didn't have you here."

She sneezes hard, and wipes her nose again on her arm, her horrid cuff knocking against Howard's head.

"Sorry. But it's true, you know. you keep my head properly with me most of the time. That's love, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I love you. I do love you." He spoons some ice cream into her mouth, swallows a mouthful of his own, then stops. He places the spoon down. "But. Like I just said. I think we work better as friends."

"Friends?" Eponine echoes his words, but she's barely conscious that she's speaking. Barely conscious that the ice cream melting in her mouth is dribbling from the corners.

She feels - numb. Sick. Her stomach heaves and she stares at Howard.

"You said you loved me. You said. YOU SAID - oh, what the hell."

She slides down off the counter and instead sits on the floor, with her knees drawn up. She can't look at him. How could he be so cruel as to make her think he loved her? And how could she have been so stupid as to fall for it?

"I do love you, I wasn't lying to you, I-" He sets his ice cream aside and crouches down on the floor next to her, trying to take her hands. "That's why I want to be friends. We can be good friends. I'm good to my friends, I promise."

Tears start to fill the corners of his eyes.

"DON'T -" She shrieks even as Howard crouches. She refuses to give up her hands, refuses to look at him.

"You lied to me. You lied. You said you loved me. You said I was more beautiful than Cosette. You told me - Why d. id you have to tell me? Why did you have to make me believe - you're CRUEL, Howard. You're worse than Montparnasse."

She shakes her head, looking up at him. As his eyes are watery, hers are perfectly dry. And it isn't because she's not upset. She is. She's devastated. Howard is her anchor, her rock - her one thing that is truly honest with her all the time.Except...lies. It's all been lies.

She should have known. She never, ever deserved anything near as good as what she had with Howard.

"You are just like the rest of this horrible place. Pretending to be lovely, when really, you are every ad as my bit as bad as my johns.

"I'm not lying to you! I didn't lie to you!" The tears start to roll freely. "I'm not like one of your johns, that's the reason I'm saying this, that's the reason I'm not just fucking you and using you, because-"

He wipes his face with his palm. "Eponine, Epsy, I...I like men."

"What?"

That actually gets her to look up, and she stares dumbfounded at Howard.

"But... But that's dirty. That's... It's wrong. To be with another man, to let him... You're lying. You're lying, aren't you? Tell me, Howard. You would not say I was beautiful, you would not want to kiss me and touch my breasts if you were one of those men."

She shakes her head. "or is it I am so ugly that even a man is better. Is that what you tell me? Well, FINE! Fine. You have made me the fool to be laughed at. Are you happy?"

She stands up, sneezing as she does. "Eat the ice cream yourself, Monsieur. I find it is time for me to retire."

He didn't expect her to understand. He hasn't expected anyone to understand. But because Wyatt was so relaxed about it, he let himself hope that it wouldn't hurt like this.

It does.

"No, it's not, it's not that, I never lied to you..." The tears roll down his neck, drip from his chin. "Please, Eponine, do I look happy right now?"

"And you think I am happy, because there are no tears down my face?" She turns back to him, eyes flashing with a temper rarely seen in her.

"I HATE you right now, Howard. I HATE YOU, more than I have ever hated anybody in my life. I HATE what you have told me. You have TRICKED me, Monsieur - yes you have, and do not dare to say otherwise, because it is not so. You let me fall in love with you. Always, always you have shouted at me and carried on that I love Marius, that I am all but married at home - well, you know, I have betrayed Montparnasse for you. And you - you make me love you more than I love Marius. You have made me fall in love. You have made me dream of us growing old together and looking after each other - having children, getting married. Having a house. I HATE you, Monsieur. I HATE YOU for doing that to me. You deserve to cry. You deserve -"

She cuts herself off, though, sagging against the counter. Her face is one of sheer despair.

"Please, Howard. Please tell me you joke. Please tell me that you love me."

He shrinks away from her, scared almost that she'll strike him. He recoils in instinct from explosions of anger.

He almost wishes she had attacked him. The lies she flings at him, the vitriol, is worse, because it's partly true. Not wholly - tirades rarely are fully factual - but enough to rend up his insides.

He should have called this off a long time ago.

It takes the last of his courage to force the words out of his throat. "I love you. But I can't be with you."

She gives a cry of despair at his words, and sinks back down to the floor, still clutching at the cabinet. Her legs feel like jelly, like they'll never support her again, so she sits as she is, heaving dry sobs Into her knees.

"You're a lisr, Howard. You're a liar. You must have known you liked boys. You - you are too young to know what you want. You are a little boy. I should have loved a man!"

Her words are slurred, running into one another as she gasps for breath, as she tries to make sense of what's happening, and how her safety net has suddenly frayed and unravelled.

Slowly, she heaves herself up, and begins to rummage through the cupboards, throwing packets and cans and bottles alike higgledy piggeldy onto the floor, until she finds the brandy. This, she begins to gulp down, gasping from the burn in her throat, even as tomato sauce from burst bean tins and melted ice cream begins to paint her toes

He watches her drink, and that's the point when he makes his decision. He's out of there. He's taken enough of her lashing without her fueling new insults and accusations with alcohol.

"Don't know what I saw in you anyway," he says, not because he means it, but because it'll hurt. Because it'll put the same twist in his chest into hers. Because he hates himself enough without her help, and being honest has only dug him into a deeper pit. "You might as well get wasted. I hope you puke all over yourself - it'll match the rest of you."

She sobs the louder at his words, and gulps down more of the brandy.

"GET OUT, Monsieur. LEAVE ME ALONE! I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU AGAIN!"

She bends, fumbling for a can, which she chucks at Howard.

"GET OUT!"

She raises another, trying to look threatening.

He barely ducks the can, only saved by the fact that he naturally waits for the blow when rage is directed his way. He grabs the counter to keep from falling over and flips her off.

"Fuck you, Eponine. Whore."

And he slams the door on his way out.

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Our Love is Quicksand [Closed]

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